"Blood in Bond"

The Knock at the Door

It was 9 PM on a frigid winter night in the quiet town of Patna. The old building groaned under the weight of the icy winds, filling the silence with eerie creaks and faint drafts that made the walls feel haunted. Inside, on the ground floor, Arjun and his father, Vikram shared a late dinner, their voices low and cautious, the dim light casting long shadows across their modest apartment. The warmth of their meal shielded them from the biting cold outside, but an unsettling tension lingered in the air, a sense that something was amiss.

Suddenly, a sharp knock shattered their fragile peace. The sound hung in the air, sharp and foreboding, an omen that sent chills racing down Arjun's spine.

Vikram's expression shifted, cautious concern replacing their earlier warmth. "Who could that be at this hour?" he muttered, rising slowly from the table. He gestured for Arjun to stay back, his instincts kicking in as he approached the door, each footstep heavy with trepidation.

Before he could fully open it, two men forced their way inside, sending Vikram stumbling backward. The intruders slammed the door shut behind them, locking it with a slow, deliberate click that echoed ominously through the small space.

They were twins—identical yet unnervingly different. Dark tattoos of demons twisted down their forearms, matching the abyss of darkness in their eyes, which shimmered with cruelty. The taller twin wore a wide, sickly grin, his gaze roaming the room as if savoring every fearful glance. His silent brother stood stoic beside him, his eyes piercing and filled with a quiet menace that sent shivers through Arjun.

The grinning twin's gaze fell on Arjun, and his mouth twisted into a chilling smile. "Good evening," he purred, the sickly sweetness of his voice contrasting with the icy air. "We're here for some... entertainment."

Arjun's father struggled to rise, defiance flickering in his eyes, but the silent twin kicked him down, his boot grinding into Vikram's chest. "Don't resist," he murmured, his voice flat and dead, like the winter night outside. "Tonight, you all have a role to play."

Without another word, they began gathering the building's residents, dragging them from their apartments one by one. The old couple from the first floor—frail and trembling, clinging to each other in sheer terror. A mother and her son from the second, the boy wide-eyed and terrified, his small hand clutching his mother's as if it could shield them from the impending horror. The killers herded everyone into the ground-floor living room, forcing them onto the floor like lambs waiting for slaughter.

The grinning twin surveyed them, rubbing his hands together with twisted excitement. "Welcome," he said, his voice disturbingly cheerful. "We're going to play a little game. Each of you will face a choice... a test of what you're willing to do to survive." He gestured to his silent twin, who pulled out a small toolbox, rusted and filled with instruments that gleamed wickedly in the dim light.

"If you refuse," the silent twin said, his tone as cold as the wind outside, "you will wish you hadn't."

The twins began their cruel game with the elderly woman, her frail hands shaking as she clutched her husband's hand, her face pale and sunken. The silent twin handed her a small glass vial filled with thick, dark red liquid, swirling ominously inside.

"Drink it," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument, "or we'll snap each of your husband's fingers, one by one."

The old woman's stomach churned as she caught the thick, coppery scent of the liquid. Blood. She looked into her husband's terrified eyes, her heart breaking. Reluctantly, her trembling hands lifted the vial to her lips, the sickening metallic taste filling her mouth as she choked it down, shuddering with revulsion.

The grinning twin watched her, clapping his hands with cruel delight. "Love is sacrifice, isn't it? Even when it leaves a bitter taste."

Next, they turned to the mother from the second floor. The silent twin handed her a jagged shard of glass, its edges sharp and splintered, cutting into her palm as she took it.